


An Education

by pherede



Series: Livewrites [5]
Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Loss of Virginity, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-19
Updated: 2013-02-19
Packaged: 2017-11-29 20:21:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/691047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pherede/pseuds/pherede
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin, working as a smith in the lands of men, is educated by a woman he hardly knows. And by 'educated' I mean 'gratuitous cunnilingus'. Smut snippet written for a livewrite prompt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Education

There are some rages, some hungers, whose strikes no anvil may bear. Thorin has been pounding out his aggression for years now, one blow at a time folding metal into sword into coin, and he has never had even a moment’s release from the emotion that eats him. He burns with it, anger and sorrow and passion and the memory of kingship, and there is nothing dark enough nor strong enough to sate his need.  
  
This is what he has believed for years, as his heart settled into stone, as he forgot that his body could serve him as more than a container for the compression of spite; but now, in the back room of an inn whose stables he has been shoeing for the last few weeks, he finds himself lured to his ruin.  
  
“I have no interest in-- in flesh,” says Thorin, and though he means it to be kingly it comes out as a transparent lie. The girl laughs, settling her hand upon his chest, her eyes bright with secrets.  
  
“In a moment’s release, then?” She has already waved away his protests of poverty; she wants no coin. In all his days among men Thorin has not been so regarded, as an object of lust rather than a potential thief, and as her body settles into his-- she has backed him against the edge of the bed, and he knows if he falls he will be naked and at her mercy in moments-- he finds in himself a desperation for that release, for any relief from the torment of his body.  
  
“I have not,” begins Thorin, but remembers that this is announcing his weakness, and appends: “In many years, I mean, in a long--” but her mouth devours his words and he has only been kissed once before, and never like this.  
  
He is a dwarf, a creature who will perhaps find some single focus for his desires someday, and until then is meant to be celibate and strong; but this, this kissing, the flicker of her tongue against and between his lips and the way his own mouth falls slack and pleading, this is nothing Thorin has even imagined, and nothing he can possibly withstand.  
  
He once kissed a dwarf-lass, puckered lips and a bit too much wet, and she slapped him right after.  
  
This girl-- Mona? Moira?-- is touching him instead, coaxing him, her hands rubbing flat on his chest so that his nipples stand up, her thumbs working at the ties of his shirt. He kisses her back, hands helplessly rising to cup her jaw and the back of her head, holding her where his tongue can follow her lead and sweep along the pearl ridge of her teeth, and she undresses him with easy abandon and sets to work on her own clothing.  
  
When they are both naked she pushes him back until his knees buckle, and as it turns out he is already stripped before he hits the bed, and her weight falls against his cock-- which is hard, which has not felt anything like this soft cruel pressure before-- and he cries out without thinking, in Khuzdul, in the tongue of his fathers: _a-gamut, ai menu_.   
  
She laughs. Her breasts fall against his chest as she leans down to kiss him, unbearably soft heavy weight, leaving him gasping and overwhelmed and helpless and rutting. She knows her power now, surely; his inexperience, his desperation, are written on his face and in the frantic hunger of his grasping hands, and when she first rocks against him he feels words falling from his mouth in Westron and Khuzdul and other battered syllables that find their own meanings, all of which are _please_.   
  
She slides down his body, and the friction is a torment, and every breath that escapes Thorin’s stricken throat is a groan; when her teeth graze his chest and catch for a moment on his nipple he arches in utter distress and moans without shame.  
  
When her mouth closes about him, he is destroyed, he is reduced to swift sharp breaths and tiny vocalizations, unable to articulate what he dreads; fortunately, she is experienced, and after only a moment or two the heat of her mouth leaves him and she laughs, a sweet delighted chuckle. “I will enjoy teaching you,” she says, and she writhes her way back up his body so that his eyes unfocus and his hands grasp the coverlet as if holding himself back from a fall.  
  
“Here,” she says, and guides his hand between her thighs, sliding half off him so that the angle is not extreme; and she teaches him slowly, letting the ferocity of his ache subside, until his clever crafter’s fingers slide and circle evenly with varying pressure and she is gasping and thrusting into his hand. All the while he is delirious with desire, her muffled moans echoed by his own even though the only touch she is giving him is the scrape of her fingernails tangling in his chest-hair, and though he does not understand yet what she wants-- beside coupling, he thinks, breeding? He is unsure of women-- he strokes her until his wrist aches.  
  
He is not, perhaps, skilled enough to satisfy her like this yet, or perhaps she does not want to be satisfied yet; at any rate, when his forearm begins to cramp, she presses him flat on his back and shifts her weight, a strange series of movements that ends with her kneeling, sitting on her heels with her knees spread about his head, and Thorin is perfectly lost until she stretches out over him and her wet quim is only inches from his mouth.  
  
“Lick,” she says, and he extends his tongue carefully, tasting; the scent of her, the copper and salt on his tongue, is intoxicating. He presses his tongue to her, groans, bucks; her hands are digging into his thighs, burning him like brands, and he can only taste her and whimper and moan and curse as she licks him, root to tip.   
  
“Find the nub,” she instructs him, “the small shaft, like a little cock; and do to me what I do to you,” and he roves with his mouth until he has it, the last digit of the smallest finger but of nerve rather than bone. When he sucks at it, she groans with such depth and longing that he thinks he will come just from the sound of it; he is so hard.  
  
But he holds himself back, focusing on her pleasure to escape his own, while she takes him into her mouth again and sucks, stretching her jaw around him; she moves, mouth working, and he echoes her even though he can scarcely think or see, panting in voiced sobs as he devours her, until finally his cock falls free of her mouth and her forehead drops to his thigh and the most incredible series of sounds come out of her, curses and fluttering sighs and gasps on the edge of pain. His cock ruts against her cheek, along her throat; and as she comes on his tongue, thighs spasming and trembling, his own voice tears out of him in heartfelt agony and the wet slick of his cock against her straining jaw-- her gasping mouth, her throat taut with pleasure-- and the hunger for release that wrings ancient curses from his throat all combine and he is coming, he is spending across her shoulder without any hope of holding back, he is dragging his heels across the coverlet and his toes splay and contract and it is nothing, nothing like he could have imagined, nothing he could have counterfeited with his own hand.  
  
She collapses atop him, her thighs still astride his ears and her wetness soaking his beard, and his own spend dripping from her shoulder onto his thigh; they eventually roll apart, only long enough to rearrange, and she lies with her head on his chest as they struggle to catch their breaths.  
  
There is no fury left in him, no memory, no almighty pressure of guilt and rage and shame. Release indeed, she has given him; relief, reprieve. He will do anything she asks as long as he can have more of this; and indeed, after the space of perhaps half an hour, her aimlessly questing fingers stray from his collarbones and his throat and his beard and begin to wander lower.  
  
“Again?” she asks, and the wicked smile plays about her lips. “Perhaps we’ll make it as far as fucking this time...”  
  
“Nothing can possibly be better than this,” says Thorin, unguarded in his delight, and she laughs.  
  
“I will enjoy teaching you _so much_ ,” she says, and throws her leg across him, and begins again.


End file.
